


Is It Possible For the World To Look This Way Forever

by jenish (phizzle)



Category: Jack's Mannequin, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-27
Updated: 2006-10-27
Packaged: 2017-10-07 21:44:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phizzle/pseuds/jenish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Beta by laurelcrowned. For stumphed.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Is It Possible For the World To Look This Way Forever

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by laurelcrowned. For stumphed.

Spencer leans his hip against the doorframe, folds his arms and watches. "Bob," says Andrew, pausing for a moment, "B-O-B, play that again?"

Bob obliges, and Spencer catches the smallest smile, tucked quickly in the downward tilt of Bob's chin. Andrew listens, one finger tapping lightly at his keyboard, soft enough that the key doesn't depress and sound a note.

Bob looks up. "Yeah, no, that's good. I just wanted to check something," and Spencer can't see Andrew's face but he must be smiling because Bob gives him the kind of smile that's a return.

"Hey," Spencer says softly from the door, and Andrew turns to face him. "Sounding good."

"Thanks." The corners of Andrew's eyes crinkle, and Spencer hits his hip against the wall to propel himself off it. He smiles, and goes back to where Ryan and Brendon are playing dice like their lives depend on it.

Spencer sits next to Jon, settling into the couch. "Where'd you go?" Jon asks, crunching between words. Spencer dips a hand into Jon's bag of chips and pilfers some.

"Just went to watch Jacks rehearsing," Spencer shrugs.

"Yeah?" Crunch.

"Yeah." Identical crunch. "What?"

"You've been watching their set on nearly every date this tour." Jon bumps as much of his side against Spencer's as he can reach. "Something I don't know?"

Spencer nudges back and rolls his eyes. "Yes, Jon, I have a raging crush on Bob."

"I thought it was Andrew." Jon's grinning, and Spencer thinks about just flicking him, right where his eyebrows meet.

"_Hah_!" Brendon shouts in triumph.

"You haven't _won_ yet, you dick," Ryan grunts.

"Suck it. I haven't won _yet_," Brendon gleefully retaliates.

"How much money do you reckon Ryan's going to lose?" Spencer whispers conspiratorially to Jon.

"Depends how much he bet," Jon whispers back. "It is Andrew you like, right?"

Spencer looks at him squarely out of one eye, something he practiced for years when he was a kid. "If I tell you to shut up, what'd you say?"

"I'd _say_ nothing. I'd know I'm right." Jon grins, and Spencer never really goes as far as wanting to punch him. Maybe pinch a little.

"Whatever." Spencer turns away. Jon just chuckles, soft in his throat.

"I knew you liked Andrew," he whispers, and Spencer flicks him on the arm.

*

Spencer watches from the side of the stage. Some nights Andrew can almost swear he can feel Spencer's eyes on his back. Some nights Spencer's right in his line of vision, off to the side but still there. The stage lights are blinding and he's playing, but he'll catch a glimpse of a hoodie and he knows, somehow, no matter how dark it is, the nights when Spencer is wearing eyeliner.

He doesn't think about it much. Spencer never really says anything, just a "Good show" as Andrew passes him. At first, Andrew acknowledges it with a smile and a "Thanks", but after three weeks, he presses a hand to Spencer's arm and looks him in the eye when he says it.

Spencer always means it. Andrew starts to get the impression that Spencer never says anything he doesn't mean.

"I think he likes you," Bob points out, one morning when the lights are too bright and it's too cold and he misses California.

"What?" Andrew looks up from his coffee and tries to rearrange himself into the now.

"Spencer," Bob says. "I think he likes you."

Andrew shrugs. "He likes all of us. I like those guys too, they're cool. What?" he asks, seeing the look Bob is giving him.

"I meant he has a crush on you."

Andrew opens his mouth to protest, but stops before the sound makes it out. "Really?"

Bob rolls his eyes. "Andrew, he's been watching our set every night and he keeps finding excuses to watch us rehearse. I mean, he likes the music, sure, but have you seen him? It's like he's magnetically drawn to you."

Andrew definitely misses California. It is definitely too early in the day for this conversation.

"Relax, I don't think he'll do anything about it. If he was going to come on to you, he'd have done it by now." Bob pats him on the arm, and Andrew wonders why he's disappointed.

  
Spencer misses their set three nights in a row, and Andrew starts to feel inexplicably cold, like there's goose pimples all down his back when he plays the intro to Made For Each Other and his eyes automatically go to side stage. But he sings _The road we drove last night stretched from the desert to Las Vegas_ and Spencer isn't watching.

"Hey," Andrew finds him in the dressing room, sitting on the couch talking to Brendon, "I … you haven't been watching us. I just, wondered if you're okay."

Brendon pats Spencer on the knee and stands. "I'm gonna go see if Ryan's finished his makeup yet," he says, and makes to leave. He darts back quickly to kiss Andrew's cheek and wink at him, then closes the door behind him.

Andrew feels oddly privileged. And a little weirded out.

"I'm fine," Spencer tells him, shifting. Andrew sits a few inches away from him. "I just, uh." He shrugs. "Didn't want to impose, I guess."

"You weren't imposing," Andrew says, voice sounding quick. "How could you be imposing?"

Spencer licks his lips and Andrew has a momentary inexplicable mental image, of what Spencer might look like inside the hoodie and the shirt and it is quite disconcerting, really, to suddenly find yourself wondering what another guy looks like naked. So Andrew just stands up, and puts his hands in his pockets.

"Come watch us tomorrow night?" he asks, though he's not sure quite what he's saying.

Spencer regards him. "Sure," he says, and half his mouth is smiling, so Andrew decides not to freak out.

"Good." Andrew tosses him an awkward tilt of the mouth and leaves, almost crashing into Jon on his way in.

"Oh! Hi."

"Hi. I was just, uh, talking to Spencer." Andrew indicates the dressing room behind him with the hand furthest from it.

"He made out with you yet?" Jon asks, and he doesn't look as if he's joking. Just friendly.

Andrew swallows, heart thumping so loud he's sure Jon can hear it. "What?"

Jon stops. "Never mind. I saw your show tonight. Good one."

"Thanks. I'd, uh, better go, you'll be on soon."

"Yeah. You should see what Ryan's painted on his cheek tonight, it's going to knock their faces off."

"Great," and Andrew feels awkward like he hasn't since he was nineteen.

"D'you talk to Spencer?" Bob asks when he gets back to their bus. He looks at Andrew in a way that can only be described as shrewd.

"Yes. He didn't want to impose, I told him it was cool." Andrew shrugs.

"Right." The look doesn't leave Bob's face. Andrew sinks down in his seat.

"You know," he sighs, "this tour isn't quite what I thought it would be."

Spencer is there the next night, watching them from the side of the stage, and Andrew sings _You can breathe but the air is running out_ and it feels hot under the lights again.

  
The breeze comes in the window, and Andrew attempts a sniff, hampered by his blocked nose. He huddles further into his sweatshirt, simultaneously glad for and hiding from the gust of air. He hears sounds, the others coming back, and quick footsteps.

"Is Andrew okay?" Spencer's voice.

Andrew hears Bob say, "He gets sick easily, with all the crowds. He'll be fine."

"I, uh," and Spencer pauses. "There wasn't much at the truck stop, but I got him these." Sounds of something changing hands.

"Hey, thanks," John says, and Andrew hears Spencer go back inside.

The bus door opens, revealing Bob and John. Andrew looks up.

"Spencer got me something?"

"Uh. Yeah, how did you –"

"I have the window open," Andrew waves a hand at it. John drops a box of cough syrup, a packet of what looks like chicken soup powder and a handful of chocolate bars onto the table. Andrew feels himself smiling and picks up the chocolate. "Awesome," he says, tearing one open and biting into it. He can't quite taste it, but it's his favourite kind and the sense memory is enough with the texture. "Perfect," he mutters around a mouthful. "Now if only I could breathe."

He misses the look Bob and John exchange.

Andrew's cold passes, and his doctor reluctantly clears him to carry on with the tour. Bob and Jon get talking, one afternoon while Andrew presses note after note on his keyboard, feeling out the corners of a new song gathering behind his eyelids. Jon invites them for lunch, says Brendon ordered Chinese and there's more than enough and they need more people to help them eat the meat stuff because Brendon won't touch it.

Andrew watches Bob and Jon, heads huddled together and hand gestures indicating they're comparing makes of guitar, and Jay Mac sitting between Ryan and Brendon, John on Brendon's other side, the four of them talking, a pack of cards emerging from Brendon's pocket. "There's this great game, we learned it on our last tour," he hears Brendon say.

Spencer sits next to Andrew and holds out a soda can. "Want some?" he asks.

"Thanks." Andrew taps it before pulling the tab. "And thanks for the chocolate and soup and stuff."

"'S okay," Spencer shrugs. "You're okay now, right?"

"According to the doctor," Andrew replies. He relaxes, moving back into the softness of the couch. "So Spencer," he says, feeling his eyes close and the new song waiting for him behind them, "would you be offended if I started writing something in the middle of a conversation? Because I've got this song and it's kind of." He smiles, sudden, and looks at him. "Lying in wait," he grins. Spencer laughs.

"I'm friends with Ryan," is all he says, and pulls a small notebook and a pen out of his pocket. "Always have these."

"You've got his back, huh?" He's noticed.

"Yeah." Spencer's smile softens, and Andrew can't help thinking for a second that it's one of the cuter smiles he's known.

"Can I – um, borrow them? Please?"

"Sure." Spencer hands them over, and Andrew can feel the edges of the song, ready to _sting_, but the pen finds the page and the sting is directed down his arm. He scribbles, scraps of notes and phrases, a fully formed line or two.

"Sorry about that," he says, when it abates. He has the working parts for the skeleton of a song, and it seems reluctant to give him more.

"It's okay." Spencer has been watching him, he realises. "What's the song about?"

Andrew looks at the notes. "Rain, partly. Mostly about missing home."

"Do you?" Spencer asks. "Miss home, I mean?"

"Yeah. Sometimes. Especially when it's cold."

"I know what you mean. I mean, I wouldn't give up this life, and a lot of the time the road feels more like home than Vegas, but – when I'm back there, it's like I never left. Not in a weird way, just, it's nice."

It's the most Andrew has heard him talk, and he finds himself watching Spencer's eyes. They're unguarded. He looks younger than he usually does, suddenly. "I wouldn't give up this life either," Andrew says, and he doesn't even notice the way they're sitting, bodies angled inwards, until he props his cheek on his hand, mirroring Spencer's.

"Where's your favourite place to play?" Spencer asks. "You've been doing this longer than I have. Is there anywhere that's just awesome?"

Andrew thinks, and smiles. "I like playing everywhere, but Richmond is pretty sweet. Their hometown," he indicates his bandmates. "And there was this one festival, the biggest concert I've ever done with Jacks. It started pouring with rain, and I mean _pouring_, but every single person stayed all through our set. That was pretty amazing."

"Wow," Spencer agrees. "If they love you in a storm, they really love you."

"We have some pretty amazing fans," Andrew says, tilting his head on his hand. He's comfortable.

"Us too," Spencer smiles, and Andrew closes his eyes for a moment. Not because he's tired, though he kind of is; not because of the song, though it's still there; just because it feels like the thing to do. He can feel himself smiling, the kind that's slow, the kind you can't help, and it's okay. This, right now, is okay. He thinks about a sweet smile and clear eyes and makes a mental note to put that in the song somewhere.

*

Spencer feels Ryan slide into the booth next to him, but doesn't look up from his sidekick. "Spence," Ryan says. His voice is soft.

"Yeah?"

"You and Andrew." He pauses, and Spencer looks up. "You didn't tell me."

Spencer drops his eyes. "Tell you what? Come on, Ry, you know what – you _know_."

"But you didn't tell me you were – are you what, dating now?"

Spencer looks at him properly. "What? No, no we're – what makes you say that, Ry?"

"You've been hanging out a lot, and it's pretty obvious you have a crush on him, Spence."

"So?" Spencer bunches his palm around his sidekick. "Are you saying I'm throwing myself at him or something? Because you know that's bullshit."

"No, I know you're not," Ryan says, earnest. "I'm saying he's looking back."

"Looking … back?"

"The same way you're looking at _him_, dumbass," and that's the Ryan he grew up with. Spencer pokes him in the side.

"What the fuck?" he asks, because he has to.

Ryan pokes him back. "You're all moon-eyes at him, and he's all moon-eyes back. I thought something had happened and you weren't telling me."

"Come on, I tell you shit like that." Spencer stops. "Does he really … moon-eyes, Ryan, seriously? _Moon-eyes_?"

"Whatever, he totally thinks you're hot," Ryan's smiling now.

To taunt or not to taunt, that is the question. "Yeah, but _moon-eyes_? You seriously belong in the nineteenth century, Ryan. In like, Britain. And he does not." Both, is the solution.

"Totally does." Ryan punctuates each word with another poke, wriggling up and out of his seat before Spencer can return fire.

"Does _not_," Spencer calls after him, but Ryan flips him off over his shoulder and Spencer starts to wonder.

"Hey," Andrew says when Spencer knocks on the Jack's bus door. "Come on, I just heard this amazing album, I was just going to find you, you have to come listen."

"So uh, Ryan says you like me, like, I mean, he says you think I'm hot, and he's probably just kidding, but I thought I'd check." He draws in a breath. "Want to go out some time? On like, on a date?" _And I am still in fucking high school_, he silently adds.

Andrew stops, his mouth opening and closing a couple of times, before he shuts it, frowns for a split second, and then shrugs. "Yeah, okay, sure. Come hear this album first, you'll love it."

Spencer wonders if he'll have to wait until after the date to make out with him.

*

"I can't believe it." Bob is staring at him, and Andrew adjusts his shirt uncomfortably. "Actually, maybe I can, but – you're _dating him_?"

"Well, not yet. I was playing him that new band I heard yesterday, remember, I gave you the CD, and uh. We made out. And tonight, this, is a date. So I guess, if there's another one, _then_ I'll be dating him." Andrew meets Bob's eyes in the mirror. "And what do you mean, maybe you can?"

Bob raises his eyebrows. "Andrew. You've been – the way you are around him, you're like a thirsty man looking at a bottle of water."

Andrew blinks, rapidly. "I – do I? Are you sure?" Bob rolls his eyes.

"I'm sure. I just – it's not that I don't like the kid. He's a nice guy, if a bit –" He searches for the right word. "Blunt," he finishes. "But that's cool. Like I said, I like him. I just, I don't see what."

"Because he's a guy?" Andrew tenses.

"No," Bob says, thoughtfully. "I don't know. I just didn't figure he'd be your type."

"I don't _have_ a type," Andrew protests, but he can sort of see what Bob means. In a way. "Look, I don't know why, okay, but I like him. I never know why I fall for anyone, nobody does. I just, have."

Bob bites his lip. "Alright."

Andrew turns back to check his hair. "Besides, he's a great kisser," he grins at his reflection.

"You can stop right there." Bob snorts. "Have fun." He pats Andrew on the head, and Andrew shakes it and rolls his eyes.

Spencer is waiting nervously when Andrew emerges from the bus, walks up, and plants a kiss on his lips. He doesn't care who sees, right now. Spencer smiles and ducks his head. "Come on," he says, "we'll have to try and find somewhere we're not recognised."

"Right," Andrew agrees, and they manage to find a small, out of the way place. The food is good, and after a couple of false starts, they get talking, and it's just like every time they've hung out. Except for Spencer's ankle brushing against Andrew's under the table. That's different. But not, Andrew realises, by much.

Andrew walks him back to the Panic bus at the end of the night, one of the few they have off. "So," he swallows.

Spencer pulls him forward by the front of his shirt, kissing him with a force he hadn't the day before. Andrew shifts closer, his back cold, his front warm, one hand cupping the back of Spencer's neck, kissing back. It's sensation and breathless and Spencer's hand is still bunched in his shirt, and maybe he's thought about this, maybe he was always thinking about this, under the surface. Spencer's tongue slips into his mouth, and he doesn't want to stop doing this, won't stop. He makes a small sound and presses their noses together as far as he can, breaking lip contact slightly to breathe, and Spencer is smiling again and Andrew kisses it, kisses him, and mumbles, "Can we do this again tomorrow?" into his mouth.

"Got show tomorrow," Spencer mumbles back, but his other hand is on Andrew's waist, snuck under his shirt, and snatches of lyric skit across his vision, _fingers on my skin_, Andrew arches.

"After show," he breathes, moving one hand down Spencer's arm and up it again, long strokes. Spencer shivers.

"Okay," he exhales, and they don't say anything for a while.

  
Andrew watches Spencer play every night that week. After each show, they find some food and head for one or other of their buses.

The first night, Brendon is holding court in the back lounge and Ryan is asleep in the bunks. The second night, Bob and Jay Mac are having an in-depth conversation batted back and forth between top bunk and bottom. The third night, Andrew is already half asleep by the time the show ends. By the fourth night, Spencer is yanking him away right as he comes off the stage, pulling him into the dressing room, but he only has three seconds with his back against the door and Spencer's mouth before there is a bang and Brendon and Jon spill into the room. The bunks _still_ aren't free, and Spencer murmurs into Andrew's ear, "We're staying in a hotel tomorrow night."

Andrew swallows against Spencer's shoulder, tipping to butterfly a line of kisses under his ear. "Okay," he breathes.

Andrew emerges into the hotel lobby the next afternoon, blinking at the light. Bob tosses him a key. "You don't mind sharing a room with Spencer, right? There's some doubling up here."

"I don't mind," Andrew replies, slinging one arm around Bob's shoulders because he's heard what wasn't said. The show that night is exhilarating, the crowd singing lines back to him, his fingers flying over the keys, and he tries not to look at the stage's wings much. Spencer has eyeliner on tonight, watching with one hip cocked to the left. Andrew takes sips from a water bottle, throat going dry too easily, and meets Spencer's eyes from the shadows.

Andrew comes off stage and Spencer tugs him by the hand, takes him to the empty dressing room. Andrew's back hits the closed door and he kisses Spencer, tongue tasting, Spencer nibbling on Andrew's lip, and Spencer's hand slips under his shirt. Andrew draws his breath in, sharp at the contact, as Spencer dips his hand lower. Andrew's hips lift.

"How long have we got before you go on?" he asks, breathless.

"Long enough," Spencer murmurs against his neck, palming and unzipping. He sinks to his knees, and Andrew still has his shirt on, but Spencer pulls his pants and underwear down to his knees. Andrew feels breath on his skin and closes his eyes.

Spencer's mouth closes over him, and Andrew gasps, "Oh, _fuck_," because it's wet and so _warm_ and he twitches, trying not to thrust too hard and this is better than he thought it would be. He wonders, in the moments when he is capable of coherent thought, if Spencer has done this before, and why exactly it has taken them this long to get here.

Spencer presses and twists and licks and it's all a jumble and Andrew can't concentrate, can't think anything but _Spencer_ and _fuck yeah_. He feels something coil at the base of his spine and bucks his hips and comes, eyes shut tight and mouth open in a low moan.

Spencer swallows. Andrew whimpers and stores the information somewhere to bring out later: _Spencer. Gives good blowjobs. Swallows._ He twitches as he feels Spencer's mouth slide away, and collapses back against the door.

"I have to go," Spencer murmurs, kissing him slowly. He tastes bitter, and Andrew laps a little at it. "I'm on in a minute," he breathes. Andrew pulls his pants up and Spencer pushes his hands aside and zips them up for him.

"I." Andrew is still getting his breath back.

"I'll see you after the show," Spencer says, kisses him one last time, and pulls him away from the door.

Andrew watches him play from the wings, spine gradually returning from its jellified state. Bob finds him part way through Camisado and says, "You going to be by the merch table tonight?"

"Yeah," Andrew replies, not taking his eyes off Spencer.

"Okay. Just wanted to make sure."

"Why wouldn't I be?" He watches as Spencer hits the cymbals.

"Maybe if you could take your eyes off your boyfriend for three seconds, it'd be obvious," Bob mutters, almost too quiet for Andrew to hear. He finally does look at Bob, then.

"I'll be at the merch table," he tells him, slowly. "Are you okay, Bob? I mean, with me and Spencer?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Bob replies. "I just don't want you, you know. Getting distracted."

"I can still do my job," Andrew frowns. "What's this about?"

Bob pauses. "Nothing. Look, I'm going to go find John –"

"No, come on. What is it?" Andrew is turned to face him now, arms crossed defensively. "What's your problem with Spencer?"

"Look." Bob sighs. "I'm just worried about you. I mean, what happens at the end of this tour?"

Andrew shrugs. "I don't know, does it matter? Vegas isn't far from home, you know."

"He's so much younger than you." It looks like it's an effort to get the words out.

"That's it? He's younger than me, therefore he'll dump me after the tour, is that what you're saying?"

"Not exactly." Bob looks at him. "Yes," he admits.

Andrew shakes his head. "If that happens, it happens. Just don't … underestimate him, or. Bob, I like what I have with him, he – don't shit on my happy parade, okay?"

"Sorry. I didn't – look, I'll see you by the merch table."

"Okay," Andrew says, in answer to all three parts of the sentence.

  
Andrew watches the sunlight hit Spencer's skin. The curtains in the hotel room are thin, and light filters through. He watches what he can see of Spencer's bare back, the rise and fall of his side. Spencer is curled, both his hands under the pillow, facing Andrew, breathing deeply. Asleep. He thinks it has to be one of the prettiest things he's ever seen. Spencer's hair falls across his forehead and Andrew lightly shifts it back.

Spencer moves closer. Andrew watches him wake up, sees his mouth curve into a smile. "G'morning," he mumbles.

"Hi," Andrew replies. "You okay?"

Spencer stretches, languid, and curls again. "Kinda sore," he says, "but yeah."

Andrew kisses him, a warm slow movement, thinks of last night (_sweat fingers skin slip mouth sounds teeth breath tight hot_) and tastes. Spencer makes a pleased noise and traces one fingertip over Andrew's shoulder, down his arm.

He breaks away a little to kiss Andrew's neck, move his mouth over his chest. He traces a scar with one finger, follows it with his mouth, brushing one lip and then the other lightly over it.

"Did it hurt?" he whispers.

Andrew opens his mouth and six things to say come into his head at once, but instead, he just whispers, "Yeah."

Spencer doesn't say anything else. His mouth returns to Andrew's, and he kisses him, warm and slow and soft, and he touches him, fingertips brushing, and Andrew touches him back, runs his palms over Spencer's hips, brushes his hair behind his ear.

Andrew hasn't counted the number of moments he's been glad to be alive over the past year. He suspects that if he did, there would be too many digits to keep track of. But in whatever place the tally is kept, another moment gets added.


End file.
